Since I can remember, I have been fascinated by writing, I have created stories, poems, essays ... I have narrated in the first, second and third person about hate, friendship, love, betrayal ... and I have experimented with various styles, but always contained within optimism and positivity. The vast majority of what I have written has been lost in time and what remains are only scraps of memories, anyway, I still keep some of my stories with me, but in particular there are two that stand out over the others, for being… different.

 Before I wrote them I would never have thought that a twisted or Machiavellian style was hidden within me, I did not remember writing anything macabre before. It may have influenced my affinity for Edgar Allan Poe, but what really prompted me to create them was a series of events and circumstances that marked me strongly, that created the emotional conditions and made rivers of pessimism and darkness flow inside me for days to come.

 

 Seventeen years old was that boy, he lived in a small town on the Venezuelan plains. The morning witnesses how my eyes open and how my mind organizes priorities and declares that it is necessary to go to an ATM machine to get cash. My trip starts, about eleven blocks I must cross for my arrival at the bank, I remain cautious as a gazelle in an African meadow, there can be cheetahs in any corner. My fear is multiplied by unpleasant recent experiences and by the violent nature of the town. Any noise of a motorcycle accelerates my heart, - "perhaps they are the same ones that assaulted me long ago" -, I whispered in my mind.

 Once I arrive at my destination and while waiting in the line, I notice that all my senses are enhanced, my perception of time slows down, and my eyes are witnesses of an interesting frame a few meters away, I appreciate it as if it were a painting in a museum: an arm holding a weapon is slowly rising up from the crowd, all my attention, all the worry of my existence at that moment is concentrated in that detail, in that man in the back of the motorcycle. -" What are your intentions? Please do not hurt anyone ”-… the action was too quick to have thought more than that. 

A gazelle that was grazing quietly in the meadow begins to secrete terror from its eyes, in a thousandth of a second it realizes the presence of a cheetah right in front, wanting to snatch its life, but it's too late, four bullets dive into its torso, the noise of death terrifies the crowd, the ground begins to rumble as a result of the immediate stampede ... 

 This is not a story of heroism, I was just one more gazelle, fleeing in fear, no ... I did not fight the murderer or rescue the victim, I was only a human seeking refuge, obeying the instinct to survive. Then I saw the motorcyclists leave, knowing that they would go unpunished, with the freeway to continue staining the lives of others ... and I watched the collapsed man, being introduced into a car with the hope that a miracle would happen in the clinic, but no, that man was dead, a few minutes ago maybe he was complaining about the tremendous heat or the strong sun cooking his head, or maybe he was thinking about his problems, or his empty stomach and his desire to eat some good patties stuffed with cheese, ... and now ... although his body was right there inside the vehicle ... he could not see the metal roof, or hear the despair of those present, or feel the contact of the seats with his skin ... now it was all the infinite emptiness ... the end of consciousness ... everything was over.

 Once the general fear had passed, the voices in the street commented that it was a problem of revenge between gangs. That day I returned home feeling more fragile than ever, a porcelain vessel on a table that could be thrown to the ground by anyone at any time. I made sure not to leave my fortress that day, nor the next, nor the next ... I went to sleep while I was soaked with paranoia, the subtlest noise outside was, in my disturbed mind, some armed criminal, I could not stop looking at the windows, shaking, with the feeling that someone would appear there pointing a gun at me and forcing me to open the doors. Eventually, after so much battling with my fears, I managed to close my eyes and put an end to that horrendous day. 

 On other occasions of my life many emotional states changed after sleeping through the night, but this time the episode of the previous day continued to invade my thoughts, my emotions and even altered my perspective of life. The sun ceased to be the benevolent sphere of life supplier, now it was a ball of fire full of stains, the world went from being an exciting place to live, laugh and be happy ... to barren and desert lands for aimless travelers, I lost the enthusiasm for everything, the things that kept me motivated disappeared, my dreams distanced myself from my being and the sense of existence just wasn't there. In this way the dark days transcurred, the piece of life in which I did not exist, in which I was only a spectator, a special guest limited to breathing, feeding and sleeping...

 I could not say when it was that my essence returned to the body, that I had a desire to do something again, but I do remember the first thing I wanted to do was to write. The ideas spontaneously climbed to my head, they were new ideas and styles that visited my brain for the first time, stories of death, blood, human evil and twisted themes. Dark sentences came out of me, as never before, the result was several mini-stories, some lost, and others that I transformed into films inside my head, but here are my two favorites, of which I never had the opportunity to narrate the prelude of his birth:

Tied to that umbilical cord, imprisoned in that damn belly, he heard that he still had a month to be born ... - Not one more day! I've been so patient! I've been floating in this darkness for eight months! Not another day! -He told himself. The creature could not wait for that amount of time allocated by nature, to know that amazing world of which he only knew insignificances that had crept through his ears... that month would be the most agonizing eternity of his existence, in that month civilizations could form and fall, continents could separate and unite again, stars could be born and explode, universes could emerge and end... 

 The escape plan began with kicks, he lashed so hard against the walls of that liquid cell, he caused so much pain to its parent ... but the tissue did not divide. His little heart became stony, and his eyes were dyed black, a black of hatred and evil ... his fingernails grew, and he began to scratch the damn walls, and his mother felt that she burned inside, and crawled on the floor, screaming and suffering ... and she bled through her belly, she bled until the beast got tired ... And the people believed he was the son of the devil and conspired to kill the miserable brat ... but the mother-wolf showed her fangs, her beast would live even if it meant death, her cub would live ... 

 Then the little demon grew claws, and unleashed a storm of martyrdom there inside his jail, and shattered her guts and organs, and those present conspired with more force against that monster that should never have existed, but the mother protected him, even if he ate her from the inside out, the little one would live...

 And the mutant grew a sharp peak, ready to cut off skin and soul ... and pecked and pecked for hours, and the walls of the dungeon opened, the belly was opened, the skin ... and the phenomenon breathed freedom, he cut the chain that tied him to his dead mother... 

 Those present rushed to him with maces, and sharp blades ... they wanted to crush and slice the child of darkness ... then black wings came out of him... and he began his flight to the vastness of the world, to the vastness of the non-prison ... That's how the raven boy was free ... that's how he got rid of that harpy that held him captive ... of that miserable beast that gave him life.

He removed the suspended body of his father from the gallow and laid him on the ground dampened by his tears and the storm, next to the old oak that had served as a support for the rope. 

 Fury! Fury! Fury ran through every atom of his body, and the boy's blood boiled, and his veins swelled to almost burst. And so he spoke to the old tree:
 -Youuuuuuuuuu! I curse you! Let lightning strike you and burn yourself to the ashes! May you rot slowly to death! May there be no water in these lands and your roots dry out! I curse you! You have been the cause of my father's death! While he was hanging and choking you kept your branches firm and enjoyed his agony! You gladly held the killer rope! You were delighted to see him squirm like a miserable pig! Are you saying that I was the murderer? That he took his life because I abandoned him in his old age? That I left him in solitude and helplessness? Are you saying I drove him to madness and I'm a scum? But how dare you? You have been the executioner! You seduced him with your stiff branches to do it! You called him from a distance! You kept your arm steady while having fun of his misfortune! That was not a poor man dying, that was your jester!

And the boy began to cry again on the flooded floor. 

- When I was a child you were my friend and my playmate, your branches held my swing and now support my dead father. Are you saying that my father always loved me and I threw him into oblivion? Are you saying that I'm a traitorous raven, a hypocritical rat? But how dare you accuse me of what you have done?! While my father was hanging, you clung even more to the ground! Killer oak, oak that will soon be dead! 

He looked for an ax and attacked the giant's trunk. He gave desperate axes against the perpetrator of the crime, against his father's murderer ... 
-You blame me for your actions, you call me a bad treacherous son, you have been my father's executioner and by justice I will be yours! 
But little altered the beastly axes the consistency of that trunk, and the son of the dead man exhausted his energies.

 And he looked for a shovel and dug and dug like a choleric mole. But the roots were too deep to take down the monster. -If I can't kill you with my hands or my strength, I will make you die of regret! I will hang myself there where my father died! And you will be the cause of the death of two innocents! You will be the murderer of the boy who once fluttered your branches, and once kissed your trunk! And you will die of guilt and sorrow! You will suffer and dry up when you notice that you are the cause of all our grief! That you are the accomplice of death! I wait for you in hell! 

And the man hanged himself where his father did ... The oak did not flinch, nor gave him remorse, nor sorrow. The oak tree was indifferent to the whole act of that boy and they say he was standing hundreds of years later. 

And the boy waited forever for his father's murderer, but they did not meet, because trees do not go to hell ...